


A Mirror to Life

by polytropic



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:57:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polytropic/pseuds/polytropic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short piece in which there's nothing wrong with Arthur's taste in art, and Eames is really kind of terrible at reading people except for when he isn't.</p><p>This fic is a coda to yjudaes' wonderful "Murmur of the Innocents 12," because I read it and then felt very strongly that Arthur needed a chance to respond. Definitely read that one first; this won't make much sense without it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mirror to Life

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Murmur of the Innocents 12](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/5720) by yjudaes. 



There has been a chilly sort of truce between Arthur and Eames for the past few jobs they’ve worked together. Eames supposes that walking out in the middle of foreplay because of someone’s taste in art will do that to a working relationship. He tries not to think of it that way, though, even to himself, because when the issue is framed like that he comes off sounding rather unreasonable.

He’s pretty sure “I can’t look at you without remembering that you have a photograph of a dead child in your hallway,” is a more accurate way of putting it, but that seems unnecessarily accusatory.

He’s not angry any more (probably didn’t really have the right to be angry in the first place, if he’s being honest). But he is still confused, and intensely creeped out, and extremely regretful that he hadn’t managed to shag Arthur once or twice or twenty times before seeing his apartment.

He’s not sure how Arthur feels about the whole thing, and is unwilling to hazard a guess. He thought he understood Arthur, before all this, and after having been proven so spectacularly wrong he doesn’t really feel like trying again.

Then their newest job turns out to be extracting details about a 20-year-old museum robbery from a former curator. “We’re trying to give it a tinge of nostalgia, even a full on déjà vu if we can manage it,” Ariadne explains happily; this is the kind of creative job that she most enjoys. “Because of the compounds we’re using I think you should be the dreamer, Arthur, since your dreams are the steadiest.”

Arthur doesn’t do anything so obvious as stiffen. His hand twitches on his pen in a telling way, though, and he carefully doesn’t look over at Eames’ corner of the room. Eames can still read him, and that simply isn’t fair, because Arthur doesn’t read like someone who looks at the world around him and sees in it only death and debasement. He just doesn’t.

“What sorts of exhibits should I be dreaming?” Arthur asks neutrally, and Ariadne shrugs.

“It’s a painting heist, but beyond that anything goes. Throw in whatever suits your fancy.”This time Arthur does stiffen, as if he can’t help it, and Eames wonders what exactly it is that is unsettling him so. Surely Eames’ disapproval can’t be all that much of a blow?

He re-thinks that theory when, after Ariadne has left for the day, Arthur comes over to his desk and hands him a neatly typed sheet.

“This is a list of the exhibits the mark curated in his time at the museum. Pick me out paintings from these and I’ll use those in the dream.”

“Those will have emotional connections that will muddle the message of the dream environment,” Eames objects, and Arthur huffs out an exasperated breath. Eames tries not to find that endearing and mostly fails.

“Make me a list of random paintings, then.”

“Why not do it yourself?” Eames scans Arthur’s face as he determinedly refuses to meet his eyes. “Don’t tell me you don’t trust your taste.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Arthur slaps the desk and turns sharply on his heel, movements stiff and angry as he heads over to his own workspace. “Seriously. Go fuck yourself, Eames. That was un-called-for.”

“You certainly seemed willing enough to defend your choices to me,” Eames shoots back and oh, hey, maybe he is still angry after all. Would you look at that. “What’s the hesitation, darling? Worried what Ariadne will think?”

“Maybe Ariadne, _unlike other people_ , is able to disagree with a person’s taste in art without turning it into an _indictment of their moral character_ ,” Arthur snarls.

“Arthur, you go out of your way to shove violence and brutality in the face of anyone who enters your home! What am I supposed to think that says about you?”

“It’s just art, Eames!” Arthur shouts, flinging his hands up in obvious frustration. Eames laughs, the sound coming out low and ugly.

“Just art? Arthur, you know better than that. Even without getting all philosophical about it, the art you buy reflects who you are, that is your choices and _your life_ up on those walls. That’s like saying ‘oh well, so what if I die, it’s just—“

“—a dream?” Arthur interrupts him with a challenging eyebrow and for a moment Eames is actually too angry to speak.

And in that moment, insight hits him like a thunderbolt.

Dreams are often much more beautiful than real life, at least until the projections turn violent and reduce even the most idyllic setting to a deathtrap. And although Cobb’s particular brand of psychosis is rare, most people engaged in dreamwork have had one or two dreams that they’ve been loathe to leave. Everyone, at some point, feels that siren call that says “I may not be reality, but I could be so much better, if only you’d sleep a little longer...” Dreamshare is the ultimate escapism.

Everyone finds their own way to deal with it. Eames enjoys the fuck out of reality when he can and clings stubbornly to it when he can’t, so that whenever he goes into a dream he always feels that tether back to the waking world and the things he loves about it. He worked closely for a time with a particular extractor who seemed to be grounded in reality mostly through sheer bloody-mindedness: she was the most relentlessly pessimistic person he’d ever met, and when they went down into the dream he could practically hear her growling at her own subconscious, “I _dare_ you to try to make this pleasant for me.”

And Arthur surrounds himself with images that capture the bleakest moments of the human condition: that shove pain and horror and death at him every time he comes home. And Eames would never in a million years choose that for himself...but he knows why Arthur does. Those walls are saying that despite what he does for a living, there are things in reality, in real life, that Arthur considers it impossible—immoral, even—to escape from.

Arthur brands his living space with his commitment to face humanity head on and take whatever it throws at him, and Eames suddenly, helplessly, can’t really do anything but respect that.

“I get it.” He has the pleasure of watching Arthur’s face go totally slack with surprise, and then screw up skeptically.

“You do?” he says, his tone dubious, and Eames realizes that Arthur himself probably doesn’t even fully understand what he’s saying by hanging those horrible images everywhere. That realization comes with a wash of affection, and then remorse.

“I do. I’m sorry I was such a twat about it; I jumped to conclusions.”

“Are you fucking with me?” Arthur sounds heavily suspicious, and Eames supposes that that’s fair. He did just go from argument to apology in the space of about a minute.

“I’m not,” he promises. “Just...please tell me you like some pleasant art too, yes? It’s not all war and blood and screaming?”

“I do! It’s not like I can’t, I don’t know, look at a painting of a flower and like it. I just...I think the ‘pleasant’ art is more meaningful because the other kind exists.” Arthur looks like he’s going to leave it at that for a moment, but eventually he lifts his chin stubbornly and looks Eames right in the eye. “And I think my art is beautiful. And sad, and frightening, and maybe shocking too. That’s what makes it...real, I guess. It grabs me; it makes me feel things, the way art should. And you don’t have to like it, but I do and I’d...honestly, I’d appreciate it if you’d acknowledge that that’s okay.”

“Oh, pet.” Eames feels like the world’s biggest arsehole. “It’s fine, it’s bloody wonderful. It means something to you and that’s...you shouldn’t let some stupid bastard like me make you feel bad about it.”

Arthur’s shoulders finally relax into something a little less defensive. Eames counts that as a minor victory, and risks crossing the room to where he stands.

“You are a stupid bastard,” Arthur mutters, but he lets Eames put a hand on his elbow without shrugging it off. “I don’t know what I was thinking letting you into my room in the first place.”

“I know what _I_ was thinking.” Arthur looks up at the deeper tone Eames’ voice has slipped into, and the wariness in his eyes makes Eames wince. He’s fucked up royally, no doubt about it. “I know I made rather a mess of things. But I sprung for quite a nice hotel room this time around, and I’d be honored if you’d let me take you there and start trying to make it up to you.”

“You run out again and I will hunt you down and kneecap you,” Arthur promises seriously after a moment of thought, and Eames can’t help but grin. That’s the Arthur version of ‘yes, darling, take me please’ and it’s lovely to hear.

“That’s very fair.”

“And,” Arthur frowns and his arms tense again just slightly, “is this going to be a hotel room only deal? Because I like my house. I like fucking in my own bed.”

Eames shivers at the thought of that Francis Bacon painting looking down at him in the night, then squares his shoulders and gathers his courage. “We’ll work up to it,” he promises, and is rewarded with Arthur’s smile.


End file.
